


Severance

by sciencefictioness



Category: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Decapitation, Headless Genichiro, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-23 07:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20888477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: Halfway up the staircase the fog descends, thick and unmistakable.  Wolf pauses for a moment, waiting for the inevitable terror as the haze spills down the boards of the stairs like liquid.  He’s felt this before— the way fear crawls through his veins and eats him alive.  Felt the horror filling him when he struck out at a monster that used to be a man again and again only to find his weapons useless, pawing through his satchel for anything that might keep him alive.The fog of the Headless clings like something living as he finishes ascending the stairs, the open space at the top of the castle bathed in mist, except something is wrong.  He moves through it easily instead of being bogged down like he’s walking through deep water. There is none of the dread Wolf knows so well now, none of the cold or the cloying scent of rot he associates with the Headless.The fog is warm, curling around Wolf’s body as though seeking affection, the faint scent of lotus blossoms in his nose.  Being back here has Wolf’s chest tight, his throat sore. The way he feels when he’s lost a battle and has to retread the same ground.Wolf didn’t lose a fight, but there was still loss, and it unfurls in him like smoke.





	1. Heresy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keio/gifts).

> Thanks to keio, who said 'headless Genichiro' and destroyed me.

The air is full of smoke. 

Ashina is in flames. 

The devastation is such a far cry from the ethereal beauty of the divine realm that Wolf feels dizzy for a moment. He crouches to the ground, buries his fingers in the earth that’s hidden beneath a fresh layer of snow, all of it gone grey with ash. 

It's good to be home, even if everything is burning.

Ashina castle is crawling with troops from the Interior Ministry. Time passed strangely at the Fountainhead palace; it’s still winter, at least, but Wolf doesn't know how long he's been away. Too long it seems. There are enemies everywhere. Worry for Kuro swells in him, and he clings to it, lets it sharpen him like steel. 

If something happens to his master, all of this will have been for nothing.

He keeps to the rooftops as he makes his way to Kuro's tower, slinking past a handful of the Ministry's assassins, sidestepping the broken bodies of several nightjar. The closer he gets to the tower the more certain Wolf is that he'll find it empty.

Wolf doesn’t know if that will be a blessing or a curse as he slips through the rooftop window and lands softly on the floor. Emma and Kuro are nowhere to be seen, but there is a note next to the incense burner, written in Kuro's precise hand.

_ The Ministry troops overwhelmed us. Headed to seek the Divine Child in the Senpou temple. Find us there. _

And at the bottom, scrawled like a hurried afterthought— 

_ If you can clear the way for some of the civilians in hiding around the castle to escape, then do so. _

The anxiety in Wolf calms all at once, like a kite losing the wind. With Emma beside him Wolf has no doubt that Kuro made it safely through Senpou temple to take shelter with the Divine Child. Emma is deceptively delicate but Wolf has seen the way she handles a weapon, even if he’s never witnessed her using one. 

Kuro wants him to thin out the Ministry troops if he can; Wolf can do anything Kuro asks of him.

Everything is simpler with orders from his master.

Wolf doesn’t dwell on that— how something in him in eases when he doesn’t have to make decisions. 

How he is at his best when all his choices involve a blade.

The castle grounds are overrun with assassins and swordsmen and officers, but Wolf can carve a path through them if he’s patient, can make enough noise and trouble to bring their forces to him and give some of the Ashina trapped inside a chance to flee. He should start with the rooftops and work his way down, but with one hand on the window that leads outside and the other on Kusabimaru’s hilt, Wolf hesitates.

There is an impulse he can’t explain, pulling him away; some instinct low in his belly, tugging at him like gravity. Wolf slips back down to the floor, feet moving soundlessly over the wood. He follows it the way he follows nightjar smoke, the way he follows Kuro’s will, the way he follows a destiny that will surely see him dead.

Wolf can’t resist. There’s no other way.

It draws him up the stairs, Wolf crouching as he goes, a hand on the wall as though he needs to steady himself. His prosthetic fingertips brush the boards, pressure without sensation. Wolf holds his breath. Doesn’t know why.

Halfway up the staircase the fog descends, thick and unmistakable. Wolf pauses for a moment, waiting for the inevitable terror as the haze spills down the boards of the stairs like liquid. He’s felt this before— in a cave in the outskirts of Ashina. In the hidden forest, in the sunken valley. He’s felt the way fear crawls through his veins and eats him alive. Felt the horror filling him when he struck out at a monster that used to be a man again and again only to find his weapons useless, pawing through his satchel for anything that might keep him alive. 

The fog of the Headless clings like something living as he finishes ascending the stairs, the open space at the top of the castle bathed in mist, except something is wrong. He moves through it easily instead of being bogged down like he’s walking through deep water. There is none of the dread Wolf knows so well now, none of the cold or the cloying scent of rot he associates with the Headless. 

The fog is warm, curling around Wolf’s body as though seeking affection, the faint scent of lotus blossoms in his nose. Being back here has Wolf’s chest tight, his throat sore. The way he feels when he’s lost a battle and has to retread the same ground.

Wolf didn’t lose a fight, but there was still loss, and it unfurls in him like smoke.

Across from him, leaned up against the bloodstained railing where Genichiro had leapt from the tower, a dark figure looms. His torso is exposed with blackened skin on his hands and arms, scars crawling like lightning over his chest. His bow is gone, taken from him.

It’s not the only thing that’s been taken.

For a long moment Wolf doesn’t recognize him, only because it’s difficult to reconcile the two things in his mind; who he was, with what he has become. 

Genichiro’s head sits a few yards away from his body, severed smoothly at the neck, his hair tangled and matted with dried blood. He’d died yet again defending Ashina, thoroughly enough that even the rejuvenating waters cannot mend him.

Still, he can’t let go. Wolf wonders if the others had drunk from the waters, had swallowed down the sediment. If Ako and Ungo and Gokan had been as Genichiro was— as Genichiro is. If Ashina meant so much to them that they could not leave her behind. 

Genichiro’s voice twists through Wolf’s head,  _ would you not serve another master? _

The answer would be no different today, even if spoken with different words.

Heresy is something Wolf is acquainted with now. Betrayal is read through the eye of the beholder. 

Wolf is an oath breaker who denied the code in favor of Kuro’s needs, and he doesn’t regret it.

He does regret this; the way fate moved Wolf and Genichiro around like shogi pieces, always standing against each other. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Ashina safe, and Wolf knows what that’s like— to live and die and live again, all to serve his master. Kuro, and Ashina, both of them greater than the sum of their parts. 

Wolf knows what it’s like to be broken and stitched back together. To bear scars that bled him dry, torn skin and shattered bones and gore spilling into his hands, but his heart just won’t stop beating.

Or it does, and then it starts again, pulling Wolf back into himself with a gasp— the way he used to break the surface of the river and take in a ragged lungful of air. 

Even the water can’t take him now. 

Wolf tells himself it’s a good thing— that he has a mission, that he has a master.

That it is enough, but sometimes it is not. Even starving wolves need more than meat.

There was a fire in Genichiro that lured Wolf like a moth. They way he moved, the light in his eyes.

Wolf would have reached out to put his hand in the flame, if only he hadn’t been sent to extinguish it.

Wolf would have let himself burn, if only they’d had time.

He takes another step forward, and what is left of Genichiro shifts in place, as if coming to awareness out of some sort of slumber. He leans towards Wolf then lurches to his feet, fog growing thicker. Wolf stills, half-crouched with a hand on Kusabimaru, his confetti a weight in his pocket. He doesn’t want to reach for it.

Genichiro deserves better.

Genichiro lumbers towards him, sword in hand— the grip is wrong, sharp tip of the blade dragging across the floor, digging furrows into the wood. He doesn’t know what Genichiro will do.

If Wolf was smart he’d run, but it seems he is a fool. Genichiro looms over him as he always has, even with his head forgotten on the floor like misplaced armor. 

When Genichiro gets nearer he reaches out with his free hand, fingers clutching blindly at empty air until they find Wolf. They brush over his clothes first, fisting in them briefly, pulling him closer. There’s still strength in his hands. They still make Wolf feel small under their weight. Panic flares, and Wolf is overcome with the urge to dodge out of the way and come up behind Genichiro with a blade in his palm.

It passes as quickly as it came, like words forgotten on his tongue, Wolf unsure what he meant to say.

Genichiro makes a noise in his chest, wheezing and animal, palm slipping up to Wolf’s face. Shaking fingers run over his features; the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones. A thumb over his lips, dragging down his throat.

There is still no terror, no trace of fear in Wolf. There is only the warmth of the fog and the faint smell of flowers and Genichiro’s fingers, trembling, tracing kanji into his skin. It takes a while to piece it together. It’s been a long time since he fought in the dark with someone by his side.

_ Wolf,  _ Genichiro says, the only way he can. 

The Ministry has stolen Wolf’s second chances from him. Has stolen Genichiro’s tongue. His eyes. His bow.

They have stolen everything, but they cannot take his will; it binds him here to Ashina, sword in hand, ready to keep fighting for her.

It binds him to Wolf, all those things that have gone unsaid now etched into his skin with shaking fingers.

_ Wolf. Wolf. Wolf. _

There is no more hesitation in Genichiro, no more reticence to reach out and take what he wants. 

They have stolen everything from him, and all he has is Ashina, and this.

Genichiro leans down to wrap clumsy arms around him and nuzzles the severed wreck of his throat against Wolf’s face. Drags it against his shoulder. Wolf is surrounded by him, dwarfed under his bulk even without his armor, without his bow, without his head. His fingers are still calling Wolf’s name.

Even in pieces, Genichiro knows him. Wants him.

Even in pieces, Wolf wants him in return.

“Alright,” he says, running a palm down the cold skin of Genichiro’s back, tracing over the scars with his fingertips. He’s never touched Genichiro like this— softly. Gently. Genichiro makes that guttural noise again, air sawing rough through his chest. 

Wolf wonders if anyone has touched Genichiro like this, or if it is something he only gets now that he is broken.

“Alright,” Wolf says again, trying to slip out of Genichiro’s hold so he can move. Genichiro doesn’t make it easy, clutching tighter at Wolf’s clothes. “A moment,” he says, and he doesn’t know how Genichiro understands, but he makes a soft sound and lets him go.

Wolf crosses over towards the railing where Genichiro’s head lays and crouches down beside it. Genichiro’s hair is tangled all around his face, and when Wolf brushes it back he finds his eyes wide. They’re a solid milky white, roaming as though he’s trying to see something, but there is no pupil, no iris. They settle on Wolf, and Genichiro stumbles towards him again, closing the distance to hover behind him. 

There is old blood smeared on Genichiro’s chin, rusty across his cheekbone. His mouth is parted, his lips busted; they move against Wolf’s fingers.

He doesn’t remember deciding to touch them.

Wolf picks Genichiro’s head up and tucks it into his clothes, twisting them in place so it doesn’t fall out. He cannot bear to leave it behind.

Cannot bear to leave him behind.

“Let us go,” he says, touching Genichiro’s arm as he passes him on his way towards the stairs. Genichiro wheezes at him again, and follows him down. 

Genichiro was agile before, but most of that is gone, and getting him to the ground is an undertaking. When they get there his fog spreads out around them, bathing a few unsuspecting Ministry troops in waves of terror. It will make things easier.

It will make things harder. 

Wolf draws Sabimaru, fingers buried in the folds of his clothes to brush over Genichiro’s cheek, some part of Wolf afraid to let go.

There’s ash on his face, and blood in his mouth, and the spill of Genichiro’s hair under his fingers. He follows Wolf like a shadow, bumping into him when he slows. They have a lot of work ahead of them, and a long journey after that.

Still, it is good to be home.


	2. Reverence

When he gets to Senpou temple, Kuro sends him on his way again.

_ Help the people of Ashina escape where you can. _

They have the means to sever immortality, but the act itself can wait; watching the castle fall has made Kuro softer and harder all at once.

Wolf wonders how much of that is because of the suffering of Ashina, and how much is Genichiro, so desperate to protect his home that he will not relent. Not even death is strong enough; perhaps it is the sediment.

Perhaps it is just Genichiro.

Wolf has his master’s orders, and Genichiro has his Wolf.

They rest at the dilapidated temple after leaving Mount Kongo— Wolf doesn’t dare let Genichiro linger there. He doesn’t think the monks could overtake them but the few who see Genichiro are wide eyed and hungry in a way that makes Wolf wary. 

They wouldn’t try to kill him, but they might do something worse.

Genichiro doesn’t tire but Wolf does, and he needs sustenance and sleep before they begin their task in earnest. He’s still nursing wounds from the Fountainhead palace, still exhausted from the endless fighting there. 

It feels like Wolf has been fighting all his life. There is an end in sight, now, but it’s no more forgiving than the beginning. 

Wolf has died too many times to fear it the way he should.

The sculptor is gone. Wolf doesn’t know where, but it makes things simpler. Explaining Genichiro is easy.

Explaining why he doesn’t put an end to Genichiro is more difficult.

Explaining the way Genichiro cleaves to him, holding onto Wolf’s clothes like a child in the dark, tracing kanji into his skin… 

Wolf can’t find the words for himself, let alone someone else.

Emma’s bedroll and some of her medical supplies have been conspicuously left behind in one corner of the temple. The fire comes easily, bathing the room in soft light and feeble warmth. It isn’t enough to truly keep the cold at bay, but neither of them are particularly used to creature comforts, and Genichiro’s fog picks up the slack. Wolf nudges Genichiro down to the floor, pressing his shoulder insistently against the wall when he tries to rise again.

“Wait a moment,” he says, and Genichiro sags, and stills.

Wolf fetches fresh water, taking a moment to undress and wash the filth from himself, scraping ash and gore from underneath his fingernails and combing it from his hair. His clothes are mostly a lost cause but he does the best he can, tugging on his spare pants and leaving the rest to dry over the fire.

He pulls Genichiro’s head from the sling he carries it in, white eyes finding him and refusing to move again. Genichiro makes a noise, reaching out with both hands, his katana laying forgotten on the temple floor. His brows furrow in Wolf’s hands, unhappiness obvious on his face. 

The trip to Senpou and back has taught Wolf a lot about Genichiro; what he wants, what he needs. He’s dogged now, as he’s always been. 

Wolf doesn’t know why he expected anything less.

He won’t settle until Wolf is close enough to touch, so Wolf brings the washbasins and a rag and sits between his knees with Genichiro’s head in his lap, wetting the cloth and getting to work. The water is cold but Genichiro doesn’t flinch at the chill as Wolf wipes his face, scrubbing away old blood and dirt. His hair is worse off but the mats come untangled eventually, the strands finally washing clean. Genichiro watches him all the while, nose wrinkling when Wolf is less than gentle, milky eyes blinking slowly at him now and then.

Genichiro himself is slumped over Wolf’s back, arms wrapped around his waist, legs crowded against him on either side. He rubs his neck back and forth across Wolf’s shoulders, gentling his grip only when he accidentally brushes his fingers over a particularly tender cut and makes Wolf hiss. It’s going to scar, but it is one among many, and Wolf cannot find it in himself to care.

He brushes Genichiro’s hair with one of Emma’s combs, threading his fingers through it to make sure it’s smooth. When he’s finally done he sets Genichiro’s head down on the bedroll in front of him, pillowed with some clothing so it doesn’t list to the side. Wolf needs to rewrap his wounds. Needs to eat. Needs to sleep.

Can’t bring himself to move, Genichiro holding him close, fog swirling lazily through the temple. It’s thinner when there is no one around but the two of them, wispy and intangible. 

Then Genichiro’s hands begin moving on him again, more deliberately than before. They slide against his chest, Wolf’s usual layers of clothing out of the way. He takes Wolf’s knee in his hand, eases a palm down the inside of his thigh over the thin fabric there. There is none of the clumsiness that is sometimes present in Genichiro’s movements, none of the uncertainty. He rubs insistently at Wolf’s skin, eyes staring with an intensity Wolf can feel in his stomach, the hand on his thigh straying to palm Wolf through his pants.

Genichiro’s tracing words into Wolf’s chest again,  _ want you. _

_ Want you. _

With Genichiro’s hand squeezing over his arousal, his eyes locked on Wolf’s face, it’s impossible to deny Wolf wants him, too. 

It isn’t the first time Genichiro has touched him like this— eagerly, hungrily— but they were always surrounded by enemies, eking out a few hours of quiet as they made their way forward. There are no Ministry troops now. No threats.

No excuses.

Wolf had always said no,  _ we cannot. It isn’t safe.  _

_ You don’t want this. _

_ Wait, Genichiro. _

Now there are no dangers lurking nearby. 

Genichiro does want it, more than he wants anything. There is Ashina, and there is Wolf.

Genichiro has waited long enough. He seems to feel Wolf’s resolve give way, because he fumbles through the folds of Wolf’s pants to slide his hand into them. Genichiro’s fingers close around him, his other palm petting over Wolf’s chest, rubbing circles on his abdomen. 

Wolf can’t help the way he bucks into the touch. The way he clutches at Genichiro’s arms, arching against him, stitches pulling as he writhes. It has been so long since someone else put their hands on Wolf that he can scarcely remember the feeling, and the past few months have been a whirlwind of activity. Wolf has hardly had time to breathe, let alone take time for himself.

A wolf starved for touch along with everything else.

He shivers as Genichiro works him, tucking his face into Genichiro’s chest, hips rolling. There is so much of Genichiro it’s easy to hide in him; to curl into his body until there is nothing but the two of them. The firelight flickers on the walls, little blue flames erupting around Genichiro now and again that make Wolf think of the sculptor’s idols. The wind howls outside, winter shaking at the trees and slipping through the floorboards. 

Ashina is burning. Ashina is frozen.

Inside the temple, the fog keeps Wolf warm. 

He’s close to falling apart when Genichiro shifts behind him. Something nudges at his face, and Wolf opens his eyes to find Genichiro’s head there, Genichiro holding it aloft with a fist in his hair. Genichiro’s lips are parted, something fathomless in his eyes. Something hesitant.

Something needy. He stops stroking Wolf to trace his fingers over the skin of his hip. It isn’t  _ want  _ anymore.

_ Need. Need. Need. _

They’ve stolen everything from Genichiro, but Wolf can give him this.

He circles his fingers around Genichiro’s wrist and guides it back into his clothes, shivering when he picks up his rhythm again.

Then he takes Genichiro’s head in his hands and pulls it close to bring their mouths together. Genichiro’s lips are cold, and it’s strange to kiss him when there is no tongue, no wetness, no warmth. 

It’s strange, but it is still Genichiro, and that is enough. His mouth moves against Wolf’s, lashes fluttering closed, arm curled tight around Wolf’s waist.

Wolf comes with Genichiro on his lips, thunder rumbling in the distance, fog so thick around them both for a moment that the rest of the world is nothing more than an afterthought. Wolf’s breathing is ragged, skin flushed and sweating. Genichiro slips his hands out of Wolf’s clothes, both arms curled around him now, palm messy and slick with Wolf’s come as he holds him tight. Wolf sets Genichiro’s head down in his lap, petting absently through his hair with his eyes half shut— cupping Genichiro’s cheek, running a thumb over his lips. 

Genichiro tugs Wolf closer and makes a guttural noise Wolf hasn’t heard before, something low that sounds almost pleased. He’s hard— Wolf can feel him through his ragged pants, but it’s no different than usual. 

Genichiro is always like this when Wolf is in his arms. There is no urgency to it, no desperation. He seems content now, nuzzling the jut of his throat against Wolf, watching him with hazy white eyes. The thunder sounds further away. The wind has settled outside the temple.

Tomorrow Wolf will take Genichiro down to the river. Coax him into the water and scrub him clean. Sneak back to the castle and find some of his armor, maybe. Confetti is a rare thing, but it would only take a handful for someone to do Genichiro real damage, and Wolf isn’t sure if he would heal. 

Tonight he leans back against Genichiro’s chest and untangles his hair with his fingers until his eyes feel heavy. He lifts his head again, once. Kisses him softly.

Then he falls asleep with fog swirling around them, palm on Genichiro’s cheek, ear against his chest. There’s silence where his heart should be beating, but it is alright.

Wolf’s can beat for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me nice things, here or on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/scifictioness?lang=en) But hey, somewhere, sekiro fandom small I am all alone and adrift.


	3. Spiritfall

It is no easy task his master has set before him.

Winter rolls into spring in fits and starts. Wolf and Genichiro camp in the field as they clear out soldiers, then retreat to catch snatches of rest, only to return and find more Ministry troops trickling into the empty spaces they’d left behind. Wolf learns to fall asleep with Genichiro wrapped around him; in Genichiro’s lap, Genichiro leaned against a wall or tree of pile of stones with arms that never tire of clinging. On the floor, Genichiro spooned up behind him, refusing to give Wolf an inch of space.

He learns to interpret the splay of Genichiro’s fingertips on his skin with a skill born of practice. Wolf becomes fluent in the slow drag of his touch, the wordless things Genichiro says to him again and again and again. _Want you, need you._

_Wolf._

_Stay._

Wolf learns to read his body language— to anticipate the hunger in him that rises sometimes and drives his hands into Wolf’s clothes, and his fingers into Wolf’s mouth, pulling bliss from him until he comes to pieces, whining, _gods, Genichiro, please._

Genichiro is not always satisfied after coaxing Wolf to fall apart. There are nights when he does it again, and again, restless and rumbling and holding so tight to Wolf that he leaves bruises in his wake. Nights when he keeps going until Wolf is shaking and over sensitive, tugging Genichiro’s hands away, _stop, it’s enough._

_Genichiro, I_ cannot.

Storms gather closer each time, lightning threatening in the dark clouds overhead that never manages to break free. It’s obvious that he wants something more, but Genichiro doesn’t push, and Wolf doesn’t know how to soothe him. What his body is capable of, what it isn’t.

If the things he wants are things he can have, now, or if it’s something else that has been taken.

Wolf has gotten clothes for him and retrieved Genichiro’s armor from forgotten corners of the castle; putting him in it is unwieldy, but Wolf feels better taking him into battle when there are layers between Genichiro and all the Ministry’s swords.

When Wolf takes it all off and pulls Genichiro into the river, both of them undressed with the water flowing clear and cold around them, Genichiro never stops touching him. Wolf scrubs him clean, Genichiro’s head sitting forlorn on the bank as he watches himself run his hands over Wolf’s skin. Scars, and bruises, and wounds; the mangled end of his arm where his prosthetic attaches, healed now but no less ravaged. Wolf wonders if he remembers it all— that he is the one who took Wolf’s arm from him. That so many of his scars bear Genichiro’s name.

There are no apologies from Genichiro’s fingers, and Wolf is grateful for it.

There is only _want_ and _Wolf_ and _mine_. There are only Genichiro’s desperate hands and his cold lips and his wide, white eyes.

Wolf learns to fight with Genichiro trailing behind him, relying on his fog far more than he should, picking off sluggish, terrified enemies with ease. He can spot the violet glow of confetti like a beast alerting at the scent of prey, every ounce of his focus honed in to destroy them. It’s a rare enough occurence that Wolf doesn’t think they know what’s lurking for them in the fog.

Then again they’d have to leave survivors for word to get out; Wolf is starved, and Genichiro is tireless.

None of the Ministry has walked away, yet.

They clean them out in cycles, circling back to rest at the dilapidated temple when Wolf needs to tend more serious wounds, or care for his weapons or prosthetic. Genichiro’s sword demands constant attention— he swings it wildly, smashing the blade against anything in range, abusing the steel in ways that would have made him wince once upon a time.

It certainly makes Wolf wince when he tries to polish out the worst of the damage, to sharpen the metal without ruining it. Wolf sits in the temple with Genichiro, rubbing a whetstone over Kusabimaru’s length, cleaning out the intricate mechanisms of his arm. There are firecrackers to make, the gunpowder fine and finite. Shurikens to maintain, gears to oil, every moving part fragile and liable to fail him.

Genichiro watches, and waits, and when Wolf is through packing everything away he pulls him close.

Demanding attention as surely as his blade; Wolf expects it, now. Leans into it.

Needs it, the way Genichiro seems to need it. It isn’t strange.

Wolf is just as broken as Genichiro. Dead a thousand times but for Kuro’s blood, and he parts his thighs for Genichiro’s hands. Parts his lips for Genichiro’s mouth.

Opens, opens, opens, until he doesn’t know how to come together again.

They wake up one morning at the temple, tangled in each other, to find an offering has been left on the stairs. It’s a silk bag, dark indigo fabric tied closed with a ribbon and bulging with candy. Wolf picks one up, squinting at the dark purple sugars in confusion. He can feel the energy in them, humming and alive like those in his satchel, except a color Wolf has never seen before.

There’s a slip of paper inside tucked among the candies, written in messy scrawl, the ink smeared.

Genichiro’s Sugar.

Wolf freezes, everything around him going clear the way it does when he’s about to finish an enemy. They’d been careful on Mount Kongo, but they must have left something of Genichiro behind; his hair. His blood. Wolf doesn’t know exactly how the monks make their candy, but they can’t draw on Genichiro’s spirit from nothing. It’s more candy than Wolf has ever seen in once place before, and he wonders if this is the whole batch, or if there are more sugars tucked away in Senpou for the monks to abuse.

One more thing to worry about. Wolf can’t have them drawing on Genichiro’s power for themselves, even just temporarily, but it’s something he’ll have to address later. There is still the Ministry to contend with, after all.

Genichiro has stumbled to his feet, lingering inside the temple, swaying back and forth as his fog swirls through the room. It sinks to the floor, like mist on the ground, moving with each step they take. Wolf looks at the candy. Looks at Genichiro.

He presses one between his lips and bites down on the sugar, body falling into an unfamiliar stance on its own. An archer’s stance.

Genichiro’s stance.

Violet light flashes around him for a moment, and Genichiro comes to life all at once, stumbling across the room to get his hands on Wolf. He tugs at Wolf’s shoulders, slides his arms around Wolf’s back. Whines, grasping desperately, and Wolf understands why.

He can feel Genichiro in him. Thrumming through his blood, alive in his veins. There is energy rushing through him, making him stronger.

No, not stronger.

Making him _faster._

Genichiro sits down on the floor, pulling Wolf along with him until he’s straddling Genichiro’s thighs. Genichiro runs his palms over Wolf everywhere he can reach, trying to tug him closer when they are already skin on skin. He’s always needy, but there’s an urgency that Wolf has never seen in him. When the effect of the sugar fades Genichiro makes an unhappy noise, tracing hurried words against Wolf’s back.

_Again. Again._

“I should not waste them,” he says, and Genichiro makes that noise again, louder this time.

_Again,_ he insists with shaking fingers, rubbing his neck against Wolf’s chest.

_Feel you,_ he says. Wolf knows what he means.

One more will not be a great loss when they cost Wolf nothing. He reaches into the bag and picks up another, opening his mouth to bite down.

It’s what Genichiro wants, and they belong to him.

-

Wolf had needed speed. Needed stealth.

It’s difficult to convince Genichiro to stay behind for any amount of time, but Wolf has gotten better at getting him to listen on the rare occasions when the need arises.

He’s regretting it now, blood in his eyes and pouring from his mouth, Ministry forces closing in until it’s hard to breathe. Wolf grapples between the trees to give himself room, but the Ministry’s riflemen keep firing, even if their swords won’t reach him there. Keeping still is a death sentence.

Wolf has already called on Kuro’s blood to bring him back. Once, twice. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this— put himself in so much danger that he risks dying a true death, waking up hazy at an idol with rot pouring from him out into the world. Kuro has given him free reign to help Ashina, but forcing them to pay the price for Wolf’s failures is unacceptable. He cannot.

He will not.

Wolf thinks of Hirata. Of Lady Butterfly.

Of Genichiro.

People have been bearing Wolf’s burdens for too long already, but he might not have a choice.

Bullets are flying closer and closer as Wolf ducks through the trees in search of an exit. He’s forced to the ground more than once, Ministry dogs snarling at his heels, blades ringing and canons booming. There shouldn’t be this many troops in the Sunken valley; last time they traveled through here there were scarcely a dozen men, all of them distracted and easy to overtake.

Wolf knows where the Ministry is organizing, now, where they’re keeping their reinforcements as he cleanses Ashina inch by pitiful inch. The knowledge is doing him no favors at the moment. He’s managed to deflect all the bullets so far, but it’s only a matter of time before one hits home. The temple’s idol was the last place he meditated; it takes a while for him to come back to himself when he revives. Wolf doesn’t know what sort of state he’s in while he waits to wake again— if his heart is already beating. If his chest rises and falls.

He wonders if Genichiro will find him there, still and lifeless and cold next to the idol— if he will understand, or if he will grieve. Wolf thinks of Genichiro pawing at his body, tracing words into his skin, trying to get Wolf to answer when he is still too far away.

_Wolf._

_Want._

_Stay._

He dodges out of the way of a dog’s teeth. Ducks under a Ministry sword. Wolf slips his prosthetic into the folds of the sling and brushes his fingers over Genichiro’s hair.

He’s so used to the weight of him now that it’s hard to fight any other way. His chest aches. His hand shakes.

The fog rolls in so thick it looks like smoke. It creeps in from the trees, swallowing up Ministry troops one by one as it spreads across the valley floor. From inside the haze there are strangled cries— the sound of dogs whining, blood spraying out from the mist.

It curls around Wolf like a caress, clinging warm and familiar.

Genichiro never really listens. Not for long, anyway.

Wolf smiles in the mist Genichiro has brought with him, Ministry troops seized up in terror, watching with shocked eyes as Wolf slips through it unaffected. They’re slow and shivering, paralyzed by fear as Wolf moves fluidly in the ether.

Genichiro ignores the Ministry soldiers for the most part, only lashing out at those who block his path as he makes his way towards Wolf. He’s reaching long before Wolf is close enough to touch; Wolf steps into his space, lets Genichiro run his hand over his face, his throat, his arms. There’s blood everywhere. Genichiro’s fingers are wet with it when they start sliding over Wolf’s skin.

_Hurt,_ he says, weapon hand curled around Wolf’s back, blade pointed up at the sky.

_Wolf. Hurt._

“I will be fine,” he replies, and Genichiro whines, finding a particularly deep slice on Wolf’s abdomen and pressing his fingers accusingly into the wound.

_HURT,_ he says again, more emphatically, digging the word in deeper. Wolf tugs his hand away and slides it higher so Genichiro is cupping his face again.

“It’s fine. Let’s finish this, first.”

Genichiro fumbles at Wolf’s clothes, reaching into his pocket where he keeps a handful of sugars and pellets and powders in case he needs them in a fight. It’s mostly empty, now— Wolf’s mouth is overly sweet with the fading taste of sugars, chalky where he’s pressed dry pellets under his tongue. He finds what he’s looking for instantly, lifting the purple candy up in his bloody fingers and pushing it against Wolf’s lips.

He can always find his sugars in Wolf’s pockets. Can feel them there, no matter where Wolf puts them.

Wolf opens his mouth to let Genichiro press inside, a trio of Ministry soldiers watching them from a few yards away, chests heaving and eyes alive with horror as Genichiro softly, gently feeds him candy. There’s the taste of rust. The salt of Genichiro’s skin.

Wolf bites down until the sugar cracks between his teeth and lets his body fall into Genichiro’s stance, arm pulled back like he’s drawing a bow, crouched and predatory. Violet light hums around him, Genichiro in his mouth, and touching his face. Genichiro in his clothes, white eyed and waiting for Wolf’s attention.

It’s home, in a way nothing has ever been home.

Ashina, but only if Genichiro is there.

He draws Kusabimaru again. Presses a kiss to Genichiro’s knuckles to soothe him.

“You came for me,” he says. It’s as much thanks as he can bring himself to speak aloud.

Genichiro lifts his blade, and follows Wolf into the fray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me nice things.


	4. Divine

When the fog clears from the valley, settling down around their feet like it only does when they’re alone, it’s hard for Wolf to pick his way across the ground. It’s so thickly littered with corpses in places that he has to step carefully, has to guide Genichiro out to keep him from stumbling now that the fight is over. They’re both wretched with gore, and in a few hours the valley will be rancid with the scent of decay. Wolf doesn’t worry about it.

The Ministry will come along and collect their dead; burn them, or carry them home. With so many slain perhaps they will hesitate to keep pushing deeper into Ashina.

Or perhaps they will push harder, ready to take vengeance as they keep trying to take his homeland.

Eventually the risk will no longer be worth the reward, or so Wolf hopes. He doesn’t know how many lives the Ministry will throw away on the ragged, picked over bones of Ashina. Doesn’t know what they want; if it is simply territory, or something more sinister. Wolf has seen the way men fight against mortality.

If it’s the waters the Ministry is after they’ll never give up; it’s an endless cycle, one Wolf cannot seem to stop.

Cling to immortality to save Ashina. Sever immortality to save Ashina. 

Wolf needs both.

Wolf does neither. 

The journey back to the temple drags, mostly because Genichiro will not relent. He grabs Wolf every chance he gets, nuzzling at his throat and pulling on his clothes long before they’re anywhere near their destination. Genichiro is stronger than Wolf— has always been— and he pins Wolf up against trees and walls and stone cliff faces, caging him in and pressing close. Touching Wolf’s face, trying to unfasten the belts and fabric that hold his gear in place.

Trying to undress him, and Wolf takes Genichiro’s wrists in his hands and guides them away.

“Not here,” he says, low but firm. Genichiro makes a noise that’s more growl than anything Wolf has ever heard from him before, but he lets Wolf slip out of his hold and follows dutifully behind him. Wolf’s muscles are sore, and he’s jittery with the aftereffects of so many sugars on an empty stomach. Genichiro’s fog is soothing when it brushes over him, and Wolf relaxes into it as they travel.

When they finally reach the temple Wolf bypasses it to head towards the river instead, stopping at the banks to stack all his weapons in a pile, unlacing the ties that wrap serpentine around his calves. Genichiro’s head sits atop the cloth sling Wolf keeps it in when they are on the move, face pulled into a scowl. He often looks unhappy, but rarely  _ this  _ unhappy.

It’s not a quick task getting them both out of their gear— Genichiro’s armor, all Wolf’s layers bound in place— but it’s even more difficult with Genichiro trying to help. He’s clumsy but determined as he pulls at worn cloth and old leather, making displeased noises, brows furrowed where he glares from the bank. 

Wolf wants to rinse his clothes off and clean some of the filth from his blades, but he’s barely stepped into the river before Genichiro is on him like a second skin. He wraps his arms around Wolf, palms sliding down his spine, shoving his neck into Wolf’s own. There’s the sharp press of dry bone and bloodless flesh, Genichiro’s hands slipping over the small of his back. One slides lower, cupping the swell of Wolf’s ass, fingertips digging in hard. 

_ Wolf,  _ he says, fingers roving, unmistakably hard against against Wolf’s stomach.

Wolf doesn’t want to do this here, out in the open where anyone could see. There is no one for miles— Genichiro’s fog would tell them otherwise— but it’s still a vulnerable thing to have Genichiro’s hands on him without the safety of the temple walls to keep them hidden.

“Wait, Genichiro,” Wolf says, wading further into the river and pulling him along as best he can. The water surges up around his chest, over Genichiro’s hips, flowing faster as they move deeper.

Lightning cracks through the sky to the west, clouds rolling in dark from horizon. Genichiro’s fingers move over his shoulder blades, and there’s something angry Wolf can’t place in the words, in his face, in his touch. It’s not the kind of anger he’s felt from Genichiro before— at the end of sword, on the tip of an arrow. It’s something sullen. Something morose.

_ No wait,  _ Genichiro says, and Wolf shakes his head, rinsing blood and dirt from them both with absent gestures.

“Not here,” he says again, scratching his nails through a particularly thick patch of gore on Genichiro’s forearm, “just wait.”

There is more lightning. It’s closer this time, louder. Genichiro’s eyes seem alight with it, glaring at Wolf from the riverbank.

_ No WAIT,  _ he insists as the sky goes black overhead, Wolf’s night vision making up the difference when the world shifts into darkness.  _ No more. _

Realization rolls in slow; it’s what Wolf told Genichiro that morning when he departed. What he always tells Genichiro when he leaves him behind, pressing his shoulder into the wall of the temple, holding him in place on the floor.

Stay here.

Just wait.

His fingers are still moving. The air crackles with power.

_ Wolf hurt. No wait. _

He left Genichiro behind and almost died again, and now Genichiro will not let him go.

Wolf curls his arms around Genichiro, face tucked into his chest and eyes wrenched closed. The guilt comes; swells, and doesn’t fade. It isn’t anything new.

One more verse in a song he knows by heart. One that gets stuck in his head, singing him to sleep, following him through Ashina without end.

“Not like that,” Wolf says, shoving his face harder into Genichiro. “I’m not going anywhere.” Genichiro whines.

Or maybe it is Wolf.

“Let me wash you, and then we’ll go inside.”

_ Together,  _ Genichiro says.  _ Want. _

“Together,” he agrees.

Wolf wants him, too.

Genichiro lets Wolf scrub the grime from both of them. Watches him sink under the water to sift his fingers through the tangles in his hair, scrubbing until the river runs clean around him. Wolf stays under for a while. Long enough that his lungs should be screaming for air, everything going hazy as his body shuts down. Long enough that he should be drowning, but there is only quiet, and cold, and Genichiro, waiting. Even the water cannot take him now.

A blessing, and a curse.

Genichiro is already reaching for him when emerges. They climb out of the water together, a storm roiling furious over their heads.

He leaves Genichiro’s armor by the river, wrapping his weapons up in their clothes and gingerly retrieving Genichiro’s head before making his way back to the temple. It’s cold with the wind blowing, skin dripping and hair soaked through, but there is no point in dressing when Genichiro will just take everything off again. When they get inside Wolf sets the bundle down near his bedroll, metal clanging against metal, the tip of Kusabimaru’s sheath sticking out from the pile. 

He lays Genichiro’s head in its customary place and takes a moment to light the fire. It’s habit more than anything else. Wolf doesn’t need light, or heat; he can see in the dark.

Genichiro will keep him warm. 

Still, the flames are a comfort. Some normalcy he can hold onto, but it’s barely flared to life before Genichiro tugs Wolf away, back onto the bedroll. Back into his lap, Genichiro leaning against the wall, pulling Wolf closer. When Wolf’s back is flush against Genichiro’s chest and stomach he stills, hands slipping down to Wolf’s hips. 

He holds them in place, grinding into Wolf, rolling his own hips suggestively. It’s nothing he’s done before, but it’s hard to mistake his intent, especially when one of his hands slides down between Wolf’s thighs. His fingers press higher, until Genichiro is rubbing inelegantly at Wolf’s ass— searching. Seeking.

_ Want,  _ he says with his free hand, nuzzling and squeezing and making needy sounds.  _ Lost you. Wolf. Want. _

Then, when Wolf thinks he is done— 

_ Please. _

Genichiro doesn’t ask for things. Doesn’t say please. 

Wolf can’t refuse him. Not when Genichiro feeds him sugars, or reaches into his clothes, or lifts his head beseechingly for Wolf to bring their mouths together. Not when he clings to Wolf’s sleeves and tugs him close,  _ Wolf, stay. _

Not now when he’s rocking into Wolf, begging with calloused fingertips, his want pulling storms from the sky as lightning strobes outside.

“Alright,” Wolf says, pushing Genichiro’s hands away and leaning forward to rifle through his gear. Genichiro whines and paws at Wolf, trying to pull him back, but Wolf covers one of Genichiro’s hands with his own and squeezes. “Give me a moment,” he says, digging blindly.

There’s a jar of oil he uses on their blades— pressed camellia seeds, the faintest trace of cloves. It’s tucked among his rags and his whetstones and Wolf briefly wonders how much is left.

If he will have to steal more after this. If Genichiro will be as relentless as always.

Heat curls through Wolf at the thought as he finds the jar amongst the clutter of his bag, pulling it out and settling against Genichiro again. The cork pops free easily— Wolf is always cleaning something, sharpening something, caring for something. Oil on steel. Stitches on skin. 

Dragon’s blood and poison rust and all the things that eat away at him, even as they keep Wolf safe.

He pours some of the oil over his fingers and seals the jar again, tossing it back where it belongs. It drips over his fingers, and he rubs them together, feels the way they slide. That heat in him blooms larger, spreading open to take up too much space.

Wolf hasn’t been with anyone like this in years, but his body remembers it.

Remembers enjoying it. Genichiro’s eyes are on him— Wolf wonders how much he can see, if he can see at all. It feels like he’s being watched even if he’s not. His face flushes as he parts his thighs and slips his fingers between them, pressing into himself slow, chest already rising and falling faster. Genichiro keep rocking his hips forward. His hands are everywhere, dragging over Wolf’s chest and stomach, sliding up his throat to trace his lips. 

Wolf leans back heavily against him, knees thrown wide as he works himself open. The act itself is meant as preparation— Genichiro is big all over, and Wolf has enough aches and pains already— but it still feels good and he can’t help the sounds he makes, warmth pooling and spreading through him as he twists a second finger into himself. Wolf reaches up, prosthetic sliding around the curve of Genichiro’s neck, holding onto it to give himself leverage as he lifts his hips higher. He whimpers, gasping, and Genichiro’s movements become more purposeful. Curious.

Genichiro’s brows furrow as he finds Wolf’s arm and follows it with his touch, trailing a palm down Wolf’s forearm, over his wrist. Down his knuckles, to where Wolf is stretched open around his fingers— Genichiro makes a guttural noise as Wolf presses in, then withdraws, only to push in further. 

It’s tentative when Genichiro slips a finger in next to Wolf’s own and pushes in slow. Wolf exhales rough and pulls away, wiping the excess oil off on Genichiro’s seekings fingers. They’re cold as they press inside him, the heat of Wolf swallowing them up. Genichiro growls, his other arm looped so tight around Wolf’s chest that it’s hard to get air as he twists slick fingers in and out of him. They’re wider than Wolf’s, longer; it’s enough to have his thighs shaking.

“Genichiro,” he says, and Genichiro squeezes him harder, curling around Wolf until he’s surrounded. Genichiro prying him apart, and holding him close. Caging him in.

It wouldn’t take much for him to finish this way, shivering on Genichiro’s hands, hard and wet as he spends against his belly.

It would be so easy— it’s always so easy— but Wolf needs more.

“Enough,” Wolf says, trying to ease Genichiro’s hand away. Genichiro growls again, rumbling and displeased, twisting his fingers and shoving them in deeper. He doesn’t want to be coaxed away when he hasn’t finished with Wolf even once yet. Getting out of Genichiro’s hold right now would be like coaxing a feral dog to release prey still twitching in its jaws.

Difficult, if not impossible.

Wolf reaches underneath himself instead, wrapping his hand around Genichiro’s cock, feeling him go inhumanly still. 

Still, and silent, but only for an instant. 

Then he’s pulling his fingers out and grabbing Wolf’s hips in both hands, grinding urgently into his palm. Wheezing and clinging, tracing words Wolf can’t make out into his skin. Wolf lifts up on his knees and fits the tip of Genichiro’s cock against himself, pausing for a moment. His fingers aren’t long enough to close around Genichiro. 

There is so much of him.

Wolf needs every bit.

He breathes and eases himself down, inch by deliberate inch. It’s too much but Wolf keeps going, sinking further until he’s taken all of him. Genichiro’s hands shake, fingers trembling as they move in incoherent patterns. He wraps his arms around Wolf again, one palm splayed over his chest, the other curled around his belly. The noise he makes is wounded, like someone wreathed in confetti has buried a sword in his guts. 

Wolf lays his hands over Genichiro’s. Laces their fingers together and holds on as he lifts himself up and grinds down again, listening to Genichiro keen, feeling him quake. Lightning erupts outside, hitting the ground all around the temple in bright gold bursts. 

It creeps over Wolf’s skin where Genichiro is touching him, little bursts sizzling from his fingertips. Genichiro’s eyes are shot through with stuttering yellow light.

They have taken everything from Genichiro, but they have not taken this; there is Ashina.

There is Wolf, and he rocks down on Genichiro again, and again. The temple is bathed in strobing gold, rain pouring from the clouds overhead as they come together. Genichiro starts moving with him, grinding viciously up into Wolf, lips parted as though he’s watching something that has him awestruck.

Tomorrow Wolf will be bruised from Genichiro’s fingers. Will be sore where he’s splitting him wide, thighs weak and body aching. 

Tonight he is just Genichiro’s. Wolf leans forward to take Genichiro’s head in his hands, tucking it in the bend of his prosthetic arm and leaning down to kiss him. He clings to Genichiro’s forearm with his other hand as he holds him there, writhing in his lap, licking into his mouth; Genichiro is whining.

Or maybe it is Wolf.

Wolf comes with their lips pressed together, Genichiro’s fingers tangled in his, both of them shaking.

Then Genichiro eases him down on his elbows and knees, a hand splayed between his shoulders, and keeps moving. Wolf cups Genichiro’s face in his palms, rocking with every one of Genichiro’s thrusts, hair falling like a curtain around them both. It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

Genichiro is dogged now, as he always been.

Wolf doesn’t know why he expected anything less. He kisses Genichiro until his mouth is swollen.

Genichiro’s lightning lingers outside the temple until dawn.

-

The valley is clean with no trace of the Ministry there in months as spring gives way to summer. They’ve taken their dead. Brought more soldiers.

  
Taken their dead again.

The two of them are settled underneath the statues, Wolf leaned into Genichiro, scraping the dirt out of the joint of his prosthetic. They’re losing the light— fireflies glimmer all around them, flashing through the tall grass. Genichiro leans over him, giving Wolf enough space to work and not an inch more. He knows how much room Wolf needs to sharpen a blade, to disassemble his arm, to oil a shuriken.

Know when he can tug at Wolf’s clothes seeking skin. When he will say yes, when he will say no.

Except Wolf never says no; it is yes, or it is  _ wait. _

_ Not here,  _ but always somewhere.

Every now and then little blue flames burst into being nearby, fading away as soon as they appear. It reminds Wolf of the idols. There is one further down the valley, but Wolf doesn’t see the point in going there.

It is easier to rest with Genichiro at his back than anywhere else, now. The Ministry mostly sticks to the castle, trying to fortify it against an assault that has no rhyme or reason. Wolf slips in the whittle down their numbers, slips out again before they notice. There are less of them every time, all of them increasingly disheartened.

Wolf is in no hurry to finish the job. Kuro is patient. He returns to Senpou temple from time to time, but he never lingers long. 

Genichiro is always waiting, and it is good to be home.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I have some more Sekiro fic in the works soon so I'll be bothering you all again. Tell me nice things, here or on twitter @scifictioness.

**Author's Note:**

> The rest of this should be up over the course of the next week or so. Tell me nice things! Here or on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/scifictioness?lang=en)


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